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  He zigzagged his way through the neighborhood, pausing to check each street sign against the memory from his only other trip here. The streets all had tree names: Oak, Cypress, Palm, and so on. Just eight of them, two running the length of the thumb and six crossing, but they laid in such a way that most of the homes faced the ocean, which made for a corkscrew route to the interior. Since oceanfront went for a bunch more than those on the inside, Brady was looking at a little green house on the middle row. Not enough paycheck to swing one on the water, and he’d be working too much to enjoy an ocean view anyway. Heck, this rental was a big enough chunk of his check to make him nervous, probably a sign that he ought not stretch it even this far. But this was his big chance, a shot at something better than the stunted aspirations he saw other guys settle for after growing up as poor as he did. And his vision included a home he would be proud to show to Mom; one he might convince her to come stay in. Time to let him start taking care of her from now on. As much as he wanted this for himself, that dream for her never strayed far from his consciousness.

  So far, the office scoop appeared dead-on. Not only did all the houses and yards look great, a pair of even better-looking women out jogging in the swelter waved at his passing vehicle, and an older he-man type dragging a tree limb offered a nod and a smile when Brady stopped at a four-way near him. Definitely a friendly impression, such cordiality toward a stranger.

  Despite the money worries, excitement flowed through him as he drove, caught up in the feeling of enchantment he got from the rustling palms, the smell of the ocean, the sandy sidewalks, and the cool-looking Spanish tile roofs. Even the relentless heat felt different, special somehow. He shook his head in amazement, remembering himself as a teenager hungering for a taste of life outside of Lee County. The rapt hours lost traveling the virtual world of the Internet, unable to quite believe such places really existed, that people actually lived like this. And hot damn, here he was.

  Brady pulled up in front of twenty-nine Mangrove Street, the house he’d seen displaying a rental sign the other night. He pumped his fist when he spied a car in the driveway.

  He hopped out and paused to check himself in the Jeep’s side mirror. He had gone with the look he’d often noticed on the locals—khakis, golf shirt, and sandals—but at a lean, not quite lanky six-three and one-eighty, even casual clothes came untucked and got all wanker-jawed when he drove. He leaned down to the mirror and ran a hand through his springy, longish hair, flipping it back. “Can’t be looking like some punk-rock roadie when you’re trying to rent a house in the high-end district. And dang, you sure are getting a little thin up there for a guy who hasn’t hit thirty,” he told his reflection.

  “Hey, no need for that.”

  Brady straightened and spun around, heat rushing to his cheeks. He spotted a woman with long black hair, wearing white shorts and a sailor top, walking around the corner of the house toward him.

  “No fair to look any better than you already do,” she said as she neared. He felt his blush deepen, seeing the impish grin and flirty sparkle in her eyes that said “gotcha.”

  “Well, no fair sneaking up on a guy who’s primping,” he said, hoping it came off lighthearted and not too flustered. Try to hang on to some kind of cool.

  Up close, she was taller than his immediate impression. Maybe as much as six feet, even subtracting for her high-heeled ankle-strap sandals. The hair and equally black eyes would have suggested American Indian if her skin tone didn’t have the unmistakable pinkish glow of a fair complexion with years of tan layered on. Mid-twenties, he figured, seeing no lines in the smooth tan, and beautiful. Which was all like trying to describe a Ferrari as a two-door car with bucket seats. Forget just beautiful—she was hot enough to burn.

  “You must be Brady.” She extended her hand, her grin incandescing into a full-out smile. “I’m Lexy Burgess. Welcome to paradise.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brady took Lexy’s offered hand, a long, slender, browned hand with a clear, sort of shimmery polish on the nails, her grip firm and cool. The handclasp brought them close enough for him to catch a whiff of her perfume—something flowery, maybe plumeria—and an intoxicating undertone of sun-heated skin. The energy of her pure raw sex appeal rolled over him in waves, so tangible it made him self-conscious about where to look. Eye contact felt like a come-on, anywhere else and she would think he was smoking her over, and not looking at her was just plain rude. Shit. Then he remembered why he was there and made a vague gesture toward the house. “So, this is it.” Boy, wasn’t that some fascinating repartee.

  “Come on, let’s look,” she answered, her eyes still teasing him. This girl knew her effect. But wow, what a smile. Enough octane to buckle his knees.

  He followed her across the lawn with absolutely no problem deciding where to look now. “Sorry I’m late, hope it hasn’t ruined your schedule,” he said to her back, hypnotized by the long, lean thighs and the tantalizing tight swell of the white Lauren shorts they disappeared into.

  “No problem, Brady,” she said over her shoulder without breaking stride. “It gave me a chance to practice the sales pitch I’m going to give you.” Her crooked grin told him she knew exactly what he’d been watching. Dang, was that good or bad?

  Lexy led him on a tour of the house, which he liked a lot—hardwood floors, lots of windows, high ceilings with fans in every room. Only thirteen hundred square feet, but it had two bedrooms and two baths, so perfect. Bigger than the cottage he grew up in, where his mom still lived. A cottage that needed a new roof, at least one room re-floored, and some significant paintbrush time put into it, none of which Mom would allow him to invest a dime in. She even had the same furniture from as far back as his memory stretched. Fine, if she wouldn’t let him buy anything for her house, he’d cover her future this way.

  He had finally stolen some bills from her—medical stuff and taxes she wasn’t ever going to catch up to—and paid them off. Part of why he was so short now despite making good money for the last year, but more than worth it. She’d kept working part-time to augment her Social Security, but with shaky health and worse health-care benefits, he couldn’t picture her winning the budget war. And of course she’d chided him even for doing that little bit, once she discovered it, though the appreciation and pride in her eyes liked to tore his heart in two.

  Meandering through the new place, he felt insecure on what all he should ask—attempting his first venture beyond apartment living—but Lexy volunteered questions and answers for him. From the probing he saw in her sidelong glances, he guessed she was on to his ignorance.

  And as nice as the house looked, it wasn’t faring too well in the battle for his attention when compared to the captivating flashes of delicate midriff that showed anytime the sailor top swayed, the gentle slope of upper breast visible when she leaned, or even the quizzical expression she used that made one eye tilt higher than the other. He’d always thought Peg owned the sweetest body he’d ever seen, but maybe not anymore.

  He smiled, picturing her reaction were she here. Peggy never seemed to get catty about another woman’s looks. She’d just be kicking him on the ankle and smirking when she caught him rubbernecking. Bet she’d like the house, though. Funny, she wouldn’t even know he moved to Florida if not for the long-forgotten suitcase he retrieved from her apartment. First he’d seen her in a year, going back to when he took the tech job for that nutcase car dealer in Charlotte.

  After they looked over, under, and through everything, Lexy offered him a Coke from the fridge and led him out to two chairs arranged around a little table on the screened-in porch, the only furniture in the place. Girl had a seriously smooth hospitality system all laid out.

  “See, Brady, you can see the ocean from here,” she said as they sat.

  He turned in the direction she pointed, and sure enough, between two other homes across the street, he saw the silvery-blue sparkle of the Gulf water. He drew a long breath in reflex, trying for a whiff of ocean smell. Long
way from Sanford, North Carolina. Though he had no interest in spending the money waterfront would cost him, Brady had to admit that it was pretty cool to be able to see it from your porch. Next to all this, a sleepy little southern town landlocked out in the middle of nowhere like Sanford offered all the excitement of a dentist’s waiting room. People who stayed there liked to talk up the “small-town ties” thing, but to Brady those ties felt more like a noose.

  “Yeah, but is it cheaper if I promise not to look?” he asked straight-faced, and got a laugh. “Hey, I know you’re a real estate agent, but I noticed you keep saying ‘we’ and ‘our.’ Do you also own the house?”

  She did a quick shake of that flawless head, hair swinging and glossing in the tree-dappled light. “No, but my father does. He designed and built the neighborhood and leases some of the homes to the right people.”

  She put so much spin on the word that he felt an automatic gut-twist of anxiety about the prospect of her ever classifying him as “right.” After all, a half-Filipino boy raised by his single mom on a librarian’s salary in the rural South didn’t develop much expectation of qualifying for anything as exclusive as Lexy made this sound. Just the crazy dreams that never truly felt realistic. He caught himself flicking the two middle fingers of his right hand against the palm, an old nervous habit left over from college exam days.

  “What do you mean, ‘right’?” he asked, suddenly questioning whether he ought to be feeling ranked off about it. But it couldn’t be a race thing; she wasn’t blind.

  She reached across the table and patted his forearm. How could her touch be cool and hot at the same time? “Oh, you’ll see. Heron Point is more of a lifestyle than just a residence, kind of like a club. Everybody loves it here and they hardly ever move, so I usually have a waiting list. In fact, I do now, but everyone on it wants waterfront, which makes this your lucky day.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I have had two other calls on this one, though, so do you want it?”

  “I think so.” He didn’t want to seem too easy, despite the thrill he felt at being accepted. And as much as he wanted to be one, something was uncomfortable about the whole “right people” thing. “You can decide I’m the right person that quick?”

  “Oh, we’ll need a credit check and you’ll have to sign off on our policies and regulations agreement, but I believe you are,” she said. She smiled again and that flirty look came back. “It’s mostly up to me, just being sure it’s someone who will be happy as part of the neighborhood here.” She leaned in toward him, exposing another glimpse of the soft rise of her breast pushing against a bra so lacy it looked sheer. “I think you’ll fit in great. So?”

  “Let me see the numbers again,” Brady said as a stall. The money did make him edgy.

  He scanned the contract again and felt a lurch of dismay. The monthly rent he already knew from the phone conversation, but he had not known that she also wanted the last month prepaid plus a damage deposit equal to another month’s rent. Heat climbed the back of his neck. He wished he could slink under his chair and hide, because he just flat didn’t have it.

  The chattering from a pair of squirrels atop a nearby orange tree broke the silence, like spectators jeering at the imposter exposed, the proof that he didn’t belong here. He leaned his head back and scratched under his chin with a fingernail, trying to think of a way to explain this to a rich girl without sounding like a loser.

  She brought her right foot up onto the edge of her chair, wrapping her arms around her leg, and propped her chin on the knee. Her eyes searched up and down his face. “Is there something disagreeable about the contract? It’s pretty much your standard, boilerplate one-year lease.”

  He averted his gaze from hers, feeling a little red around the gills. Man, she was tuned in. Okay then, just say it. “Three months up-front is more than I can do right now. Could we make last month’s rent due when that month gets here maybe, if my credit checks out?” He gave in to the urge to offer some sort of explanation, and then felt pathetic for adding, “I’m sorry, I’ve only been here a few weeks, playing catch-up. I didn’t expect this much today.”

  She shook her head slowly, just an inch or so back and forth, biting her bottom lip. “No, it’s not something I can change. I know it’s a lot, but Dad insists on it.” She brought her foot down and straightened out her half-mile of perfect, honey-brown legs, stretching like a cat in the sun. She laid her head back against the chair and eyed him across her cheekbones with a resigned but conspiratorial grin. “Between you and me, he’s been kind of retired for a few years, and I think he’s a little out of touch with the real world of budgets.”

  Brady liked the way she said it. He sensed her empathy, but that was that. He stood and shrugged. “Oh, w—”

  “Hey, I’m getting a brainstorm,” she cut in. Her face lit up and Brady marveled again at how truly stunning she was. “How about this? You make two checks and I’ll hold one. Could you do that if I cashed it in, say a month?”

  He realized how much he really wanted this house, this neighborhood, and to see more of this woman. Though writing bad checks seemed a dangerous way to make it happen, he recalled the car dealership in Charlotte holding customers’ checks all the time. What the hell, don’t miss the chance. He ran the math in his head and nodded. “Four weeks will cover it. Can you really do that?”

  “Oh, sure, Dad will never even notice.” She made a little dismissive flick of her wrist and handed him a pen.

  “Yeah, but can I trust you?” he said, only half joking.

  She laughed and gave him another taste of the flirty look. “With money, absolutely.” Pause. “But not about anything else.”

  With any luck, that meant he couldn’t trust her to keep business and pleasure separate. Brady grinned back at her and got busy writing.

  “So, you told me your company gave you a room at Duneside Villas,” she said. “That sounds pretty sweet. What made you decide to move to a house?”

  Smooth, the quick change of subject from money once it was settled. Brady finished the checks and ripped them out of the book.

  “Well, even though the room offer was part of my relocation package, they didn’t mean like forever,” he said. “Besides, I don’t want to live at work. Not only do I never really get to be off, I feel like I can’t ever have a date, throw a party, drink a beer, or anything. It’ll just never feel like my own place.”

  “That makes sense when you put it like that. You can certainly do all those things here, and we hope you will. Although maybe not too wild a party.” She winked. “Unless, of course, I’m invited.”

  Brady had to laugh when she finished by moving her eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx. He followed her out, trying to decide if she was asking to be invited as his date. Sounded good to him, but he suspected it was just her way and not a come-on. She projected none of the needy aura he usually sensed from women on the make, something he’d seen plenty of when bartending his way through college.

  He took a last glance at his new home as she walked him back down the driveway to his Jeep, the euphoria reassuring him that he hadn’t just overloaded himself. As long as nothing went screwy on the job, he could handle it.

  When they reached the sidewalk, Lexy waved at some people out by the pool beside the house across the street and then turned to him. “Hey, there’s a whole pack of your neighbors. Let’s go over and I’ll introduce you to everybody. You’re gonna love it here.”

  She grabbed his hand and took off across the street, high heels and all. Brady held on tight and entered the social scene of Heron Point at a half-trot.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Maggie Davis broke off in the middle of explaining her new bedroom color scheme to Ellie Macken when it became obvious she had lost her audience. Cupping her hand above her brow to block the sun, she tracked the path of Ellie’s lasering stare to see what on earth had caught her eye and triggered such a sudden flare of anger. From Maggie’s angle, some guy Lexy Burgess had by the hand across the
street appeared to be the target of all those daggers. Hmmm. Totally unlike quiet, calm Ellie to show emotion like that. Who was this man and what was the story between him and Ellie?

  “Hey, Lexy!” whooped Susan, their unofficial master of ceremonies and always the clown of the party. “Come on. The water’s too warm, but there’s a nice cold pitcher of Mai Tai to swim in!”

  Too sucked into the drama playing across Ellie’s face to risk missing the slightest twitch, Maggie let the corner of her eye follow the hasty primping by the other two women there at the poolside table. Susan, whose barrel-shaped body was the battleground of a thousand failed fad diets, stood to adjust her perpetually wandering swimsuit, all the while still waving to Lexy with her free hand. Tall, languid Jill, she of the pithy skewering wit that never missed a bull’s-eye, had twisted around in her chair to finger her pool-damp coppery shag into shape by the reflection in the polished steel barbecue grill. The splashing and shrieking from Jill’s two pre-teens romping in the pool drowned out whatever Susan was trying to tell them all about Lexy.

  But Maggie watched Ellie’s quivering nostrils, seized by a desperate longing to feel that passionate about something, anything, even if it was hate. Her own life had stultified to the point where it felt like a fatal disease. God, how disgusting to realize she had sunk to fulfilling all her emotional needs vicariously, like some pitiful voyeur whose feelings had been amputated. She didn’t really have to worry about dying from terminal boredom, though. Maggie knew—when sober enough for the thought to sneak in—she was drinking herself to death.